The Grand Sophy (33 page)

“Sophy!” ejaculated Mr. Rivenhall, visibly shaken. He took an involuntary step toward her, checked himself, and said rather disjointedly, “Pray do not! I did not mean—I had no intention— You know how it is with me! I say more than I mean, when—Sophy, for God’s sake do not cry!”

“Oh, do not stop me!” begged Sophy. “Sir Horace says it is my
only
accomplishment!”

Mr. Rivenhall glared at her. “What?”

“Very few persons are able to do it,” Sophy assured him. “I discovered it by the veriest accident when I was only ten years old. Sir Horace said I should cultivate it, for I should find it most useful.”

‘You—you—” Words failed Mr. Rivenhall. “Stop at once!”

“Oh, I have stopped!” said Sophy, carefully wiping the drops away. “I cannot continue if I don’t keep sad thoughts in my mind, such as you saying unkind things to me, or—”

“I do not believe you felt the slightest inclination to cry!” declared Mr. Rivenhall roundly. “You did it only to set me at a disadvantage! You are, without exception, the most abominable, shameless— Don’t start again!”

She laughed. “Very well, but if I am so horrid, perhaps it would be better for me to go to stay with Sancia.”

“Understand this!” said Mr. Rivenhall. “My uncle left you expressly to my mother’s care, and in this house you will remain until such time as he returns to England! As for these nonsensical notions about the Marquesa, you are not to be held responsible for anything she may choose to do!”

“Where the well-being of the persons to whom one is attached is concerned, one cannot say that one is not responsible,” said Sophy simply. “One should make a push to be of service. Yet I do not perceive what I should do in this event. I wish it had been possible for Sancia to have stayed in Sir Horace’s own house!”

“At Ashtead? How should that serve?”

“It is not so near to town,” she pointed out.

“Sixteen or seventeen miles only, I daresay!”

“More than twice as far away as Merton, however, But it is useless to repine over that. Sir Horace says the place is in disrepair, quite unfit to live in. He means to set it all to rights when he comes back to England— I only wish it may not be too late!”

“Why should it be too late?” asked Mr. Rivenhall, willfully misunderstanding her. “I assume Lacy Manor does not stand entirely empty! Does not my uncle leave some servants in charge?”

“Only the Claverings, and, I suppose, a man to look after the gardens and the farm. But that, you know very well, is not what I meant!”

“If you take my advice,” said Mr. Rivenhall, “you will not meddle in the Marquesa’s affairs!” He added caustically, “Or in anyone else’s! And spare yourself the trouble of telling me that you do not mean to take my advice, for that I know already!”

Sophy folded her hands in her lap and began to twiddle her thumbs, so absurd an expression of docility on her face that he was obliged to smile.

But as the season advanced he smiled less and less frequently. Since she had not yet been presented at Court, Sophy was not invited to the Regent’s grand fete at Carlton House, but there was scarcely another society event which she did not grace. In honor bound, Mr. Rivenhall accompanied his mother and her two charges to many of these functions, but as he was obliged to spend a considerable part of his time watching his sister dancing with Mr. Fawnhope and his cousin flirting outrageously with Charlbury, it was scarcely surprising that he should have been goaded into saying that he would be thankful when July saw the Ombersley household safely bestowed at Ombersley Court. He also expressed the wish that Sophy would choose between her various suitors, so that he might one day return to a house empty of visitors. Miss Wraxton said hopefully that perhaps Sir Horace would not be much longer absent from England, but as the one letter so far received from this erratic gentleman had not mentioned any prospect of a speedy return from Brazil, he was unable to set much store by this.

“If,” said Miss Wraxton, casting down her eyes in pretty bashfulness, “she should still be with dear Lady Ombersley in September, Charles, I think I must beg her to be one of my bridesmaids. It would be only civil!”

He agreed to it, but only after a moment’s pause. “I trust that by then my uncle may have returned. God knows what mischief she will find to plague me—us—with at Ombersley, but no doubt she will discover something!”

But when July came there was no question of Ombersley. Mr. Rivenhall, fulfilling an old promise, took his three younger sister to Astley’s Amphitheatre, to celebrate Gertrude’s birthday, and within a week of this dissipation Dr. Baillie had been called in to prescribe for Amabel.

She had begun to show signs of ill health almost at once, and although the doctor repeatedly assured Mr. Rivenhall later that there was no saying where she might have contracted fever, he continued obstinately to blame himself. It was evident that the little girl was very ill, her head aching continually, her feverishness increasing alarmingly at night.

The dread specter of typhus raised its head, and not all Dr. Baillie’s assurances that Amabel’s complaint was a milder form of this scourge, neither so infectious nor so dangerous, could allay Lady Ombersley’s fears. Miss Adderbury, with Selina and Gertrude, was sent off incontinent to Ombersley; and Hubert, staying for the first few weeks of the long vacation with relatives in Yorkshire, warned ,by express not to venture near Berkeley Square until all danger should be past.

Lady Ombersley would have banished Cecilia and Sophy too could she have prevailed upon either of them to have listened to her prayers, but they were adamant. Sophy said that she had had much experience of far deadlier fevers than Amabel’s and had never yet caught any worse infection than the measles; and Cecilia, hanging affectionately over her mother, told her that nothing short of force would detach her from her side. Poor Lady Ombersley could only cling to her and weep. Her constitution was not strong enough to enable her to support with fortitude the illnesses of her children. With all the wish in the world to tend Amabel with her own hands, she could not bear the sight of the child’s discomfort. Her sensibility overcame her resolution; the very sight of the hectic flush on Amabel’s cheeks brought on one of her worst spasms, so that Cecilia had to help her from the sickroom to her own bed, and to send her maid to beg Dr. Baillie to visit her before he should leave the house.

Lady Ombersley could not forget the tragic death, under similar circumstances, of the little daughter who had followed Maria into the world, and from the start of Amabel’s illness abandoned hope of her recovery. It was felt to be unfortunate that Mr. Rivenhall should also have gone to stay with his aunt in Yorkshire, for his presence always exercised a calming effect upon his mother in times of stress; and Amabel, as the fever waxed, often cried for Charles to come to her. It was hoped that a man’s voice might soothe her, so her father was introduced into her room, and tried clumsily to coax her into rationality. He was not afraid of infection, the doctor having told him that it was rare for an adult person to contract the disease, but although he was much affected by the sight of his little daughter’s condition, he had never paid much attention to his children and now failed to quiet her. Indeed, his tears flowed so freely that he was obliged to leave the room. Dr. Baillie, dubiously eyeing old Nurse, shook his head, and sent Mrs. Pebworth to Berkeley Square.

Mrs. Pebworth, a voluminous female, with a watery eye and a mountainous bonnet, smiled fondly upon the two young ladies who received her, and bade them, in a husky voice, to have no fears, since the little dear would be safe in her charge. Within twelve hours of her arrival, she was addressing, vituperative remarks to the closed door of the mansion, having been, at the orders of Miss Stanton-Lacy, shown off the premises by the redoubtable Jane Storridge. A nurse, Sophy bluntly informed Dr. Baillie, who refreshed herself continually from a square bottle and slept the night through in a chair by the fire while her patient tossed and moaned, they could well dispense with. So, when Mr. Rivenhall, posting south immediately on receipt of the tidings from London, arrived in Berkeley Square, it was to find his mother suffering from nervous palpitations, his father seeking relief at White’s or Wattier’s, his sister snatching an hour’s sleep on her bed, and his cousin in command of the sickroom.

When trouble descended upon the household, Lady Ombersley forgot all Charles’s disagreeable ways and was much inclined to think him her only support. Her joy at seeing him walk into her dressing room was only allayed by her fear that he might catch the typhus. She was reclining on the sofa but heaved herself up to cast her arms about his neck, exclaiming, “Charles! Oh, my dear son, thank God you are come! It is so terrible, and I know she will be taken from me like my poor little Clara!”

A burst of tears ended this speech, and for some minutes he was fully occupied in soothing the agitation of her spirits. When she was calmer, he ventured to question her on the nature of Amabel’s complaint. Her replies were disjointed, but she said enough to convince him that the case was desperate, and the illness contracted perhaps at Astley’s Amphitheatre. He was so much appalled that he could say nothing for several moments but got up abruptly from the chair by the sofa and strode over to stare out of the window. His mother, wiping her eyes, said, “If only I were not so wretchedly weak! You know, Charles, how I must long to be beside my child! But the sight of her, so wasted, so flushed, brings on my worst palpitations, and if she recognizes me at all she cannot help but be distressed! They will scarcely allow me to enter the room!”

“It is not fit for you,” he said mechanically. “Who nurses her? Is Addy here?”

“No, no, Dr. Baillie thought it wiser to send the other children off to Ombersley. He sent us a dreadful creature— at least, I never saw her, but Cecilia said she was a drunken wretch—and Sophy sent her packing. Old Nurse is in charge, and you know how she is to be trusted! And the girls help her, so that Dr. Baillie assures me I need feel no uneasiness on that head. He says that dearest Sophy is a capital sick nurse and that the disease is running its proper course, but oh, Charles, I cannot persuade myself that she will be spared!” He came back to her side at once and devoted himself to the task of comforting her alarms with more patience than might have been expected in one of his hasty temper. When he could escape, he did so, and went upstairs to find his sister. She had just got up from her bed and was coming out of her room as he reached the landing. She was looking pale and tired, but her face lit up at sight of him, and she exclaimed in a hushed voice, “Charles! I knew we might depend upon your coming! Have you been to my mother? She has felt the need of your presence so much!”

“I have this instant come from her dressing room. Cilly, Cilly, she tells me Amabel began to ail within a few days of that accursed evening at Astley’s!”

“Hush! Come into my room! Amabel is in the blue spare room, and you must not talk so loud just here! We thought that too, but Dr. Baillie says it could hardly be so. Recollect that the other two are well! Addy sent up word only yesterday.” She softly closed the door of her bedroom. “I must not stay above a minute. Mama will be needing me.”

“My poor girl, you look fagged to death!”

“No, no, I am not! Why, there is hardly anything that I do, so that it chafes me dreadfully sometimes, when I see Sophy and that good, kind maid of hers carrying all the burden on their shoulders! For Nurse is growing too old to be able to manage, you know, and it affects her sadly to see poor little Amabel so uncomfortable. But if one of us is not continually with Mama she frets herself into one of her spasms—you know her way! But now you are here you will relieve me of that duty!” She smiled, and pressed his hand. “I never thought to be so glad to see anyone! Amabel too! She so often calls for you, and wonders where you can be! If I had not known that you would come, I must have sent for you! You are not afraid of infection?”

He made an impatient gesture.

“No, I was sure you would not think of that. Sophy is out walking. Dr. Baillie impresses on us the need for exercise in the fresh air, and we are very obedient, I assure you! Nurse sits with Amabel during the afternoon.”

“May I see her? It would not agitate her?”

“No, indeed! It must soothe her, I believe. If she is awake, and—and herself. Would you care to come to her room now? You will find her wretchedly altered, poor little thing!”

She led him to the sickroom and went softly in. Amabel was restless and very hot, fretfully rejecting any suggestions for her relief, but when she saw her favorite brother, her heavy eyes brightened perceptibly, and a faint smile came into her little flushed face. She held out her hand, and he took it, and spoke gently and cheerfully to her, in a way that seemed to do her good. She did not wish to let him go, but at a sign from Cecilia he disengaged his hand from the feeble clutch on it, promising to come back again presently if Amabel would be a good girl and swallow the medicine Nurse had ready for her.

He was a good deal shocked by her appearance and found it difficult to believe Cecilia’s assurance that when the fever had passed the patient would speedily recover her lost weight. Nor could he feel that old Nurse was competent to have the command of a sickroom. Cecilia agreed to this, but comforted him by saying that it was Sophy who was in command.

“Dr. Baillie says that no one could manage better, and, indeed, Charles, you would not doubt it could you but see how good Amabel is with her! She has such resolution, such firmness! Poor Nurse does not like to force the little dear to do what she does not wish to, and then, too, she has old-fashioned notions that will not do for Dr. Baillie. But our cousin, he says, may be trusted to obey his directions implicitly. Oh, you could not wrest her away from Amabel! It would be fatal, for she frets if Sophy is too long absent from her room.”